


all that was lost

by Antares8



Series: The Pilgrim's Progress [5]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Beast Wirt, Birds, Gen, The Many Holes in Wirt's Magical Education, The Unknown, Travel, he doesn't know what he's doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 13:10:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15641418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antares8/pseuds/Antares8
Summary: Greg, Beatrice, and Jason search the Unknown for Wirt, not knowing what he has become. Meanwhile, the new Beast has problems of his own.





	all that was lost

all that was lost 

There’s a weird sensation in his chest that vaguely reminds him of… of something he doesn’t like to think about.

Wirt wants nothing to do with it. He’d followed the first sensation and ended up…. He doesn’t like to think about it, though of course he’s been brooding about it since it happened four days ago. Suffice to say it’s not an experience he wants to repeat.

Except when he examines the sensations more closely, he realizes that the resemblance between them is only superficial. They’re both suggestions that he should be elsewhere, but this new feeling is… itchier. It makes him feel like there’s something he should be doing, and the first step to doing it is to follow the pull.

The problem is, he has no idea if he can trust this instinct. Part of him wants to, but when he’d followed the first tug….

Wirt remembers the choked-off screaming and shudders. He would have gladly gone his entire life without hearing something like that.

So he shakes his head and goes back to healing—or at least trying to heal—this portion of his forest. It’s easier said than done; he has no training in the use of his new abilities (not that this stopped him from…) and is basically making things up as he goes along. It seems to be working, sort of. This… this sick spot, unhealthy in a subtle way that non-Beasts can’t fully feel, is a little bit smaller, a little bit better than it was before. He still has a very long way to go, though.

(There are dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands of places like this scattered throughout his forest, plus random isolated trees that need his attention. He needs to find a faster way to fix them, but he doesn’t know _how_.)

But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t completely ignore it. Even in the throes of denial, he knows that it’s important.

* * *

 

“…and then Jason Funderberker helped me sneak through the cemetery and we ended up in this place over that-a-ways with a really creepy tree. It’s even creepier than an edelwood! And then we found Beatrice and she brought us inside and asked me to tell you about how Wirt just disappeared one day, so I came inside and I told you everything I know. And then my story ended and I asked you very nicely if you could help me find my brother. Can you help me find my brother, please, Beatrice and Mr. and Mrs. Beatrice’s Parents?”

“That’s O’Sialia, dear,” says Beatrice’s mother, exchanging significant glances with her husband and daughter. “And… we’ll certainly do our best.” But her face is doubtful, her tone worried.

Beatrice can read it plain as day. She wants to help, but she doesn’t know if she can.

Frowning, the girl looks down once again at the note in her lap. Wirt and Greg’s mother had found it when she discovered that her elder son was missing; it is one of many he’d written, a missive for everyone he was particularly close to. This letter was addressed to Greg, and it asked—begged, even—the child to forget about Wirt, to grow up happy and content without the shadow of his disappearance hanging over him. It’s pretty clear that when Wirt wrote this, he thought he was saying goodbye forever.

What in the world had _happened_?

“In the meantime, dear,” Peggy O’Sialia continues, “you’d better get home before your parents start to worry. I’m certain that we can find him and send him back to you.”

“Oh, I can’t do that,” Greg announces, cheerful as ever.

“Why not?”

“Because Wirt never actually told me how he got us home last time, so I’m kind of stuck here until I find him.”

Beatrice doesn’t know whether to laugh or shake him. Judging from her parents’ expressions, they feel the same way.

“But I have a plan!” Greg proclaims. “I’m gonna retrace our footsteps and ask everybody we meet if they’ve seen Wirt.”

She shouldn’t be surprised, but she is. “You’re just going to wander around alone for weeks on end and hope you find someone who knows where Wirt is.”

“Not alone,” Greg declares. “I have Jason Funderberker.” The frog waves.

“Absolutely not,” decrees Peggy. “You’re, what, six?”

“Seven,” he corrects her, “and I don’t see why not. With the Beast gone, there’s nothing for me to worry about, even if I run into another people-eater.” (When had he and Wirt encountered a people-eater?) “Jason coughed up the bell.” A brief pause. “Well, unless I run into the Highwayman. He’ll steal my shoes from off my feet.”

“Um, no,” says Beatrice.

“Sure he will. He said so in his song.”

“That’s not what I meant, Greg. Listen, these woods are dangerous even without the Beast. There’s still things like witches—”

“Auntie Whispers wasn’t so bad.”

“—and wild animals—”

“I love animals.”

“—and there’s _another Beast_ running around.”

That pulls Greg up short. “What?” he asks, his voice suddenly small.

Beatrice feels guilty about this, she really does. The original Beast had led Greg to the very brink of death, closer than any child should ever come. That sort of thing leaves scars. Still, if she has to scare him to prevent him from running off into the woods without supervision and getting himself killed, she will. “A few months after the original Beast died, another one just showed up one day out of the blue. I actually saw him once, Greg, and he had awful glowing eyes just like the first. There haven’t been any stories about him turning people into edelwood, but it’s only a matter of time.”

She hates how he looks at her then, how his eyes are wide and frightened. “Do you think he’s going to go after Wirt?”

And the blood turns to ice in her veins.

It… it makes sense. She’s never thought of it because she’d assumed Wirt was safe in his other world, but wouldn’t the new Beast want vengeance for the old? Even if all the birds claim he is kindlier than his predecessor—even if he hadn’t tried to harm her that time she’d seen him in the woods—he is still a Beast. Why wouldn’t he seek to destroy the boy who had killed his predecessor and discovered his— _their_ —weakness?

She hesitates a second too long, so her mother takes over. “Of course not, dear,” Peggy says. It’s a blatant lie, but Greg doesn’t need to know that. (The frog, on the other hand, looks highly suspicious.) “This new Beast probably doesn’t even know what happened to the old one. Not many people do—there were only two witnesses left after you and your brother went home, after all, and everyone started making rumors right away.”

The last bit is actually true. It seems that every visitor to the millhouse has a pet theory about the Beast and the Hollow Winter, as it has come to be called. They range from “it turns out that Beasts can get sick after all and he drained the forest of life to ensure his survival” to “he kills himself every thousand years to renew his power when he is reborn in the earliest part of spring, but the historical records were lost long ago so no one knew to expect this even though we should have.” Beatrice has tried giving them her eyewitness account of the Beast’s death and explaining what the birds say, but very few people believe her. Apparently getting her entire family turned into bluebirds damaged her credibility.

Greg grins, visibly relieved. “Well that’s good. Beatrice, can you come with me to help find him?”

She glances at her parents. “…I’d like to. I mean, Wirt did save us from an eternity of birdhood, you’ll just sneak off if there’s no one to supervise you, and I have a lot of experience with watching kids your age and adventuring.”

“…We’ll talk about it,” her father says. “Beatrice, why don’t you show Greg and Jason around the house?”

She nods, takes the boy by the hand. “Come on, Greg, Jason.”

They are only barely out of earshot when he asks, “Do you think they’ll let you come?”

“I think so,” she admits. “They’ve met him before—did he tell you?” At Greg’s nod, she continues, “And for some reason they actually liked him. Then there’s no way they’re going to let you run around the forest by your—uh, without someone taller than Jason to take care of you.”

“You’re taller than Jason,” he observes.

“Yeah, I guess I am.” She pauses, then forces it out. “Greg, do you know why he left?”

“I don’t,” he says sadly. “No one does. Not Mom, not Dad, not the police or that private eye Mom hired. I have this theory that he’s on a magical quest of adventure, but he didn’t tell me anything or say where he was going or when he was going to be back.”

A cold stone settles in Beatrice’s stomach. Greg doesn’t know how to get home without Wirt, but…. “If you don’t know where he went, why do you think he came back to the Unknown?”

“Because of the bedtime story he told me before he left and because the police dogs tracked him to the river by the cemetery. Also, I don’t know where else he would go.”

Good points all. Beatrice just hopes that he’s added them up right.

She shows him around the house, introducing him to curious siblings, then brings him outside to the tree where Chit-chat the chickadee lives. “I have a nest!” the animal is chirping. “It is my nest and not your nest. It is mine. It is my nest!”

Birdsong was a lot prettier before she could understand it.

Beatrice does not have very high hopes concerning the bird’s usefulness—she’s attempted to get information out of birds before, and it usually ends with her wanting to tear out her hair in frustration—but she still feels the need to try. “Chit-chat, can I talk to you?”

“Is that another of your brothers and sisters?” asks Greg, who is very impressed by how many siblings she has.

“Chit-chat is a chickadee,” Beatrice explains. “Ever since I got us turned into bluebirds, we’ve been able to understand what birds are saying.”

Greg’s jaw drops. “That’s _amazing_!”

“It’s actually kind of annoying, actually.”

“I have a nest!” Chit-chat proclaims once more, then flutters to one of the lowest branches on her tree. “Hello. Did you know that I have a nest?”

“What’s she saying, what’s she saying?”

“Hi, Chit-chat,” Beatrice says. “We’re looking for someone.”

“I have pictures,” Greg declares. He pulls off his green backpack and rummages around for a moment, removing a few brightly wrapped pieces of candy, his brother’s hat and cloak, and some kind of glass-tipped tube thing before finding a piece of paper that he eagerly shows to the curious chickadee. It’s a picture of Wirt, as lifelike as a photograph but much more colorful, and printed on plain white paper.

WIRT R. PALMER  
DOB 4/14/99  
LAST SEEN 2/21/15 IN LAKEVILLE, MA  
IF YOU HAVE INFORMATION, CALL  508-457-1929

The Wirt in the picture (photograph? Is this what photographs look like where they’re from? It must be. How else could it be so real?) is different than the one she knows, only partly because he’s wearing a soft-looking rust-red sweater rather than the white-shirt-and-blue-cloak combination she’s accustomed to. His hair is smoothly combed, not mussed from too much time spent under a hat.

But the difference in his eyes is what strikes her most of all. He seems… older, somehow, almost burdened. A souvenir of his encounter with true darkness or something else? Beatrice can’t tell.

“Mom took this after my birthday party,” Greg tells her. He points to something in Wirt’s hand. “See? He’s still got the party hat.”

It turns out that Chit-chat is too stupid to recognize a person in a picture. Beatrice spends far too long attempting to explain the concept of art before giving up and describing Wirt. To her complete lack of surprise, the chickadee doesn’t recognize him.

Well, it was worth a shot.

Chit-chat goes back to rambling about her nest.

Greg is immensely disappointed, not just because the chickadee failed to locate his brother but also because he thought that talking to animals would be more satisfying. “It depends on how smart the animal is,” Beatrice explains. “Your frog is just as smart as a human, which is why he could sing like that. These birds, though, they’re just dumb.”

That cheers him right up. “Yeah, Jason Funderberker is a lot smarter than some dumb bird.”

“Beatrice?” her mother’s voice calls. “You and Gregory come over here.”

Heart in her mouth, Beatrice approaches.

Her parents are grim-faced and worried as they peer at her and Greg. Beatrice finds herself second-guessing her earlier confidence that they would let her go.

“Tomorrow,” her mother decrees, “you two and Junior will leave for Pottsfield.”

Greg whoops, pumping a fist in the air. Beatrice grins, tension loosening from her shoulders.

“But we have conditions,” Patrick cautions them. “You have two months, Beatrice. One month out, one month to come home. You have to take the rifle and stay on the road, and in no circumstances are you to enter the forest at night, not with that new Beast running around. If you hear that he’s in the area, even if it’s just from a bird, get out immediately, do you understand?”

“Right, yeah.”

“I mean it, Beatrice.”

“I will, I will.” Unless she has definitive proof that Wirt is also nearby—which, knowing his luck, isn’t too unlikely.

Her father is obviously still suspicious, but he lets it drop in favor of laying out the rest of the rules. “You’re to do everything you can to stay out of trouble. No going after witches, no throwing rocks at anything unless it’s attacked you first, no disrespecting officers of the law. Junior has to come back after he gets you to Pottsfield, so you’ll need to be even more careful then.”

“Take Rusty,” Peggy suggests suddenly.

“Mom, Rusty is useless,” Beatrice points out.

“No one actually needs to know that,” she retorts.

Beatrice grins.

“Stay with people you know as much as you can,” her father carries on. “Like that Endicott fellow you mentioned—see if you can stay in his manor instead of on the road. Don’t actually go into Adelaide’s house. Just—use your common sense, Beatrice.”

“I will, Dad,” she promises. “I’ll keep us safe.”

They leave barely an hour after dawn. Beatrice and Junior, her only older sibling, had packed their bags the afternoon before, had said their goodbyes at bedtime. Now they set off to Pottsfield with a grim determination that is greatly at odds with Greg’s enthusiastic cheer. He’s plopped his frog atop the dog and is making up a song about how they’re going to find and possibly save Wirt. If Beatrice hadn’t known better, she’d never have suspected that he’d woken up in the middle of the night from a bad dream.

Greg’s energy dims as the day goes on, but when they reach Pottsfield that afternoon, he perks right up and launches into another round of his new song. Beatrice suppresses the urge to groan; she’s _just_ gotten the infuriatingly catchy tune out of her head.

Honestly, Beatrice doubts that Wirt is in Pottsfield. He’d thought it was nice, once, if a little creepy. Then he’d discovered that the inhabitants were skeletons and loudly, repeatedly declared that he wanted nothing to do with the place. Still, there’s a tiny chance that he’s passed through, or maybe a Pottsfielder has heard tell of a pilgrim matching his description.

They don’t go to the big barn that had served as a location for the husking bee. Instead, they knock on the door of a house on the very outskirts of town. Beatrice had promised that she would try not to get arrested, and she doubts her parents would approve if she broke that vow on her first day out.

Junior does the talking when a pumpkin woman answers the door. He’s never been to Pottsfield before—their parents have always been careful to keep the kids out of the skeleton town—but Beatrice has told him enough that he doesn’t flinch at the woman’s unusual appearance. He explains the situation in that earnest do-gooder way of his that always makes adults want to help him and awaits her answer with a smile.

“You’ll want to talk to Enoch,” the pumpkin woman tells him. “If anyone knows, it’ll be him. Wait here. I’ll go see if I can find him.”

She returns a few minutes later with an invitation from the maypole mayor himself, who is apparently waiting in the barn. He’s willing to speak with them.

“Remember to be nice, Beatrice,” Junior mutters as they approach the barn.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

She expects a pumpkin-topped maypole, tall and vaguely nightmare-inducing. Instead, she is met with a cat, charcoal-furred and golden-eyed.

Rusty’s ears flick back, but fortunately he doesn’t try to chase the feline that is apparently Mayor of Pottsfield. That would have gotten them arrested for sure.

The cat’s clever gaze flits towards Greg’s teapot. “I remember you, little one,” he says in his baritone drawl. “You and your friends interrupted our harvest festival last year.”

“Yes. Yes we did.”

“And he’s very sorry about it,” Beatrice cuts in quickly, with a warning glance at the little boy. Honestly, it’s like he has no survival instincts whatsoever.

“We have no intention of being a bother,” Junior says, “or of keeping you from your business. It’s just that Greg’s brother has gone missing somewhere in the Unknown and we were wondering if he might have passed through here again.”

“I have a picture,” Greg tells him, stepping forward with the paper in his hand.

Enoch’s eyes go wide with shock and recognition. He darts forward, rising to his hind legs to get a better look at the colored photograph. “Oh,” he breathes, “oh, I _thought_ he looked familiar.”

“You’ve seen him?” Greg cries.

“That I have, child.” Enoch chuckles softly. The cat is grinning like he knows a private joke. “How very interesting.”

“What’s that mean?” Beatrice demands.

The cat’s eyes glitter from more than just the summer sunlight. “Only that I wouldn’t have expected someone so jumpy to… have ended up in his current circumstances. Still, I suppose it’s better this way.”

“That’s not much of an explanation,” Beatrice points out.

“So you don’t know.”

“Know what?” queries Greg.

“I think your brother ought to explain that himself, little one…. Though you let him know that if he doesn’t, I’ll gladly tell you _everything_ about our encounter. Extra encouragement to come clean, you see.” He grins, his teeth glinting.

“That’s all well and good,” Beatrice snaps, “but we have to find him first.”

“Yes, I suppose you do.” His tail twitches. “Unfortunately, I have no idea where he might be. All I can tell you is that he’s still alive.”

A tension Beatrice hadn’t noticed goes out of Greg’s little shoulders. “So he didn’t get attacked by the new Beast?”

Enoch bursts out laughing. He collapses onto his back, front paws clutching at his belly, hind paws kicking helplessly at the air.

“I’m gonna take that as a no,” Greg decides.

It takes Enoch some time to calm down. When he’s capable of speech again, he simply assures them, “You don’t need to worry about that. The new Horned Lord is nothing at all like his predecessor. He’s actually rather sweet.”

Beatrice and Jason Funderberker exchange skeptical looks.

Greg is befuddled. “A… nice… Beast?” he repeats.

“Either that or he’s a very accomplished actor.” Enoch shakes his head, an amused smile pulling his lips. “Though when I met him—”

“Met him?” Beatrice interrupts.

“That I did,” Enoch confirms. “It was, oh, early spring, I think, back when the trees were just starting to bud. He wandered a bit too close to my territory and I went out to take his measure. He was a little surprised to be approached—seemed to expect people to want to avoid him—but he was friendly enough, if a little shy.”

“Shy,” Beatrice repeats flatly.

“Quite.” The light is dancing in Enoch’s eyes. Beatrice wonders if he’s silently laughing at them; he certainly looks like he’s running a private joke.

“Yeah,” Beatrice mutters. “Okay. But you say you’ve seen Wirt?”

“Yes, I do believe I said that.”

Oh, he’s definitely laughing at them. Still, Beatrice is trying to behave, so she plasters a fake smile onto her face and adopts her sweetest voice to ask, “Would you please tell us about that?” She pats Greg’s shoulders. “This poor sweet child is very concerned for his beloved brother, you see.”

Junior rolls his eyes.

“It was early spring,” Enoch tells them. “He was awful close to my territory, so I went out to have a look at him. He gave me no name. We chatted for a while, then went our separate ways.”

“Was he okay?” Greg asks. Beatrice’s heart twists within her.

“He was well,” Enoch assures them, his eyes soft. “And as I said, he’s still alive. If you stay here for the night, I’ll get in contact with… someone… who might know where to find him.”

“Thanks, Mr. Enoch!”

But Beatrice is fighting back a frown. Last time they’d been in Pottsfield, Enoch and his people had been a lot less helpful. So why is Enoch being so cooperative now?

* * *

Wirt needs help.

He’s made some progress in the last few days, but it isn’t enough. He _knows_ that there is a faster way to heal his forest.

From Wirt could tell, the Beast hadn’t really done well with the ‘healing’ part of their job. Apparently, he’d just cordoned off particularly large sick spots and left them to fester—and fester they have. Wirt is fairly certain that even someone without his extra senses could detect the wrongness of this patch of woods.

Except there’s so much he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or how he’s supposed to do it or, or anything. He can usually control his powers pretty well, but the one time he’d gotten angry, he’d just completely snapped and now there was a new edelwood tree only a few miles away that _he_ had created, and merely thinking about it makes him shudder in revulsion. He needs advice.

Wirt had spoken with Enoch once, but the cat hadn’t known anything about how the Beast’s mostly-unused healing powers were supposed to work. Who else might be able to answer some of his questions?

His first thought is the Beast himself. The trees whisper secrets to him, and the Beast became a tree upon his death. It stands to reason that Wirt could talk with, even learn from, his predecessor’s arboreal obelisk. He’ll… save that as his last resort, if he doesn’t find anything in the next few months. Or years.

Next he thinks of the Queen of the Clouds. Surely, if anyone can help him, she can. Except she’s the one who told him he didn’t have to be a monster, who believed in him, and then he went and turned someone to edelwood less than six months after arriving back in the Unknown. She must know about that, and he doesn’t doubt that she hates him for it as much as he hates himself.

Perhaps a witch could help him—but there’s no way he’s going anywhere near another witch after what happened last time, even if it’s just Whispers.

Part of him wants to go see Beatrice. He doubts that she knows the first thing about Beast-lore, but… it would be so sweet to see her again. He’d almost gone to see her once, only to chicken out at the last minute when she caught a glimpse of his glowing eyes. Maybe she—

No. Wirt quashes the thought, clamps down on it without mercy. No, Beatrice would be disgusted—and rightfully so—if the Beast she’d once called her friend tried to make contact. Wirt had forfeited all right to human companionship when he’d turned a screaming weeping begging fleeing man to edelwood.

There’s only one other person he can think of, but he has no idea where the Woodsman is or where to find him.

Wirt scowls. Why is it that he can’t do his job, but he can turn someone to edelwood on pure instinct?

He pauses, his scowl softening into a pensive frown. Instinct. Perhaps he’s overthinking things. After all, pretty much everything he’s managed has been due more to intuition than to thought. Except last time he let his instincts completely guide his abilities he’d ended up murdering someone.

Beast or not, he doesn’t want to do that again. Wirt shudders away from the mere thought… but he can’t escape it. Not completely.

* * *

 

Beatrice is still suspicious. Enoch isn’t just giving them information and a place to spend the night, he’s kitting them out with extra food and a little bit of coin and a turkey-drawn cart. “You think this is weird too, right?” she hisses at Jason Funderberker.

The frog nods.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Beatrice mutters darkly. “He wants something from us. But what?”

Jason frowns, lifting a foreleg to his chin and adopting a contemplative pose.

“Except he hasn’t _asked_ for anything,” she continues. “Do you think he’s just trying to get us in his debt so he can call in a favor later? But that doesn’t make sense either, because what can we do for a mayor?”

Jason croaks. He hops over to Greg’s pack, digs around for the picture of Wirt.

“You think he’s trying to get on Wirt’s good side?” she says doubtfully. “What, does Enoch want him to play the clarinet at the next harvest festival?”

Jason lifts his arms to the sides of his head, splaying the fingers so that they look almost like antlers.

Beatrice shakes her head. “It’s like we told you back at my house. Nobody knows that Wirt’s the one who killed the Beast. Everyone came up with their own theories right away, and it’s not like we got a lot of visitors this winter. Somehow I doubt that Wirt told him about that when they had their little chat. It doesn’t make sense that he’d go out of his way just to get on Wirt’s good side. I mean, he’s Wirt.”

Jason shrugs, stymied.

Greg comes rushing in, Rusty and Junior by his side. “Time to go!” he exclaims. “Two days to the north, one to the west, with Rambler’s Holt at the end of the quest!”

Beatrice doesn’t point out that Wirt might have moved on by then. She just smiles and nods. “Yeah. We’ll find him soon.” And when she does, she’s going to demand some answers.

Junior hugs her. “Do you need me to come along?” he asks quietly.

“No,” she answers. “Besides, Mom and Dad will panic if you don’t show up tonight.”

“That’s true,” Junior admits. He disengages at her, begins to extend an arm to Greg.

The boy ignores the gesture entirely, jumping up to grab the startled young man in a hug. “Thanks for coming along, Junior!” he exclaims.

“It… was my pleasure, Greg,” he replies, vaguely discomfited by such enthusiasm from someone who wasn’t a sibling but trying not to show it.

They part then, Junior starting south towards the mill, the turkey-drawn cart rolling north to Rambler’s Holt.

They’re about halfway through the village when a black cat leaps from a nearby rooftop, landing mere inches in front of Jason Funderberker.

“Hi, Enoch,” says Greg. “Have your mysterious sources that you won’t tell us about said something else about Wirt?”

“Not exactly,” the mayor tells them. “I just felt like it would be better if I were to tell you this without the young gentleman nearby.” He settles on his haunches, stares at them with intense yellow eyes. “You remember what I told you about the new Horned Lord?”

“The Beast that you say is nice?”

“Yes.”

“Is he also in Rambler’s Holt?” Beatrice asks, dread curdling in her stomach.

“That he is… but none of you need to fear him. He’s a good soul, not the sort to attack without dire provocation. He has no interest in harming any of you, or the young Pilgrim.”

“You seem very confident about the goodwill of a creature you’ve met once,” Beatrice snaps, but there are things that she can’t help but remember. A shadow ducking away from her. Joyful birds. Blackberries piled on her doorstep.

Enoch fixes her with an unblinking gaze. “Haven’t you noticed how different the Unknown feels now?”

They all have; none deny it.

“The Keeper of the Forest is an integral part of our world. While the Beast reigned, the woods were a place of dread and terror. Doesn’t the very air feel more welcoming now? Healthier, more alive? That’s because the place-spirit of the Unknown is a good young man—a bit nervous, a bit shy, but fundamentally _good_.”

“…The edelwoods flowered,” Beatrice recalls suddenly.

“They did,” Enoch confirms. “They never did that for the Beast.” He stands again. “So don’t let whispers of his presence keep you from Rambler’s Holt. In fact, if I may be so bold, I would recommend that you seek him out.”

Beatrice’s jaw sags. “Are you crazy?!?”

“Why not?” Enoch retorts. “Even if I’m wrong and he’s evil, he’s still young and inexperienced. I don’t think he even knows how to create edelwoods yet. But if he isn’t twisted, then I guarantee—” His voice is slow and measured and heavy with meanings that Beatrice cannot begin to parse “—I _guarantee_ that if you find him, you’ll find Wirt as well.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Beatrice demands.

“Yeah.” Greg points an accusing finger at the cat. “You said he wasn’t going to hurt Wirt.”

Even the frog croaks indignantly.

Enoch stares at them for a long moment. “Wirt is in no danger from the new Caretaker,” he finally says. “But—well, he’ll know a thing or two about finding people in the forest. If nothing else, he can send out the black turtles for you. But I don’t think that will be necessary. I think that if you find one, you’ll find the other.”

Jason gives a great croak of alarm, then starts ribbiting frantically.

“What’s he saying?” Greg inquires.

“He remembers my stories from yesterday, how I met your brother and the new Horned Lord at the same time of the year, and he wants to know if they were together at the time.”

“Were they?” Greg squeaks.

Enoch looks him in the eye. “In a way, yes,” he confirms, his voice once again loaded with meaning.

“What do you—”

But the Mayor of Pottsfield has said all he wants to say. With a final, “Fare thee well, travelers,” he leaps from the cart, disappearing into a nearby building and leaving a thousand questions in his wake.

* * *

They’re almost at Rambler’s Holt when they bring it up again. Well, Greg brings it up. Beatrice would prefer to try every other avenue first.

“When Enoch said that the new Beast was nice….”

“He could have been lying,” Beatrice points out. “They could be in cahoots.”

“But he gave you those blackberries, and they’re your favorite food in the world. He—”

Realization strikes like lightning. Beatrice jerks, nearly falls off her seat. A curse bubbles up in her throat, but she transmutes it to something more child-friendly with the ease of long practice. “ _Cheese and crackers_.”

Greg stares at her, surprised.

“That’s the proof,” she tells him, eyes wide.

“Huh?”

“This new Beast, or Horned Lord, or whatever he calls himself, he has no reason to know that blackberries are my favorite food, but he clearly did. They were the first thing he left and the only fruit he left twice. But Wirt, he knew.”

Greg’s eyes are saucer-round, his mouth a little ‘o’ of amazement.

“That _idiot_ ,” Beatrice growls, because what was Wirt _thinking_ , making _friends_ with the successor of a creature he’d killed? He was lucky he hadn’t been turned into a tree the moment the new Beast laid eyes on him! That pea-brained, cabbage-headed _clodpole_ —

“So is Wirt the new Woodsman?” wonders Greg.

Beatrice shakes her head. “I sincerely doubt it. The Woodsman was an anomaly who pretty much stole the Dark Lantern. The Beast carries—carried—the Dark Lantern himself in every single other story I’ve heard about him. I mean, would you want to hand your soul over to somebody else?”

“Not really,” Greg admits. “And I guess it would be a really bad idea to give the Dark Lantern to the guy who blew it out in the first place.”

Beatrice groans. “So I guess we really may have to seek out the new Beast.” Her parents are going to murder her. She sighs heavily, then looks up at the nearest non-turkey bird. (She has tried asking the turkeys what Enoch was up to, late at night when Greg is sleeping, but they have no idea.) “At least we know how to find him.”

* * *

It’s been almost two weeks, and Wirt is still only about a third of the way done. He has tried everything he can think of. He’s healed trees individually, driving the corruption out of them one by one, but the ugliness hides in earth and loam and it’s a lot harder to cleanse it there. He’s tried pushing back the boundaries of the sick spot, tightening the borders that the Beast had erected long ago. All that did was concentrate the tainted magic, and soon he couldn’t push back any further. He’s even set part of the grove on fire, then brought new green life to the burnt area. Now the saplings he’d created were tainted, too, and he’d spent four days driving the twisted magic from them.

Wirt is practically pulling his hair out in frustration, his long fingers digging against his scalp. He knows knows knows in the marrow of his bones and the core of his heart and the depths of his burning soul that there _is_ a way to heal this corruption quickly and almost easily, that he is _meant_ to fix these cankerous patches in his forest. He just doesn’t know what that might be.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Okay, I need to pretend that this is some kind of logic problem… except I’ve been doing that for the last fortnight and it’s not working. I need a break.” He pauses. The statement was meant as a joke, but now that he thinks of it, he really does tend to work better after brief rests. At the very least it might calm him down a little, because he’s frustrated almost to the point of tears.

Sighing heavily, Wirt leans against a nearby maple to assemble his clarinet. Music has always made him feel—hey, there’s a thought. Maybe there was a reason that the Beast liked singing so much, that his songs had somehow ended up in Wirt’s head. This is the Unknown; he’s seen weirder.

He’ll try it, he decides. But first, he’s going to take his well-deserved break.

* * *

 

No one in town knows Wirt.

It’s the morning of their second complete day in Rambler’s Holt, and she and Greg have searched everywhere for him. They’ve shown the picture to hundreds of people, probably, with nothing to show for it.

There’s only one option they have left.

“You sure you want to do this, Greg?” Beatrice asks for the last time.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“All right then. Let’s get going.”

It doesn’t take long to find a bird, a blue jay to be exact, who knows where the Caretaker probably is. Apparently he’s been trying to ‘fix a Bad Place’ for a while, so he’s almost certainly still there. The jay gives them directions.

Greg’s hand slips into hers. Beatrice doesn’t comment, just like she didn’t comment on his most recent bout of nightmares. Her other hand is already clenching the rifle in a white-knuckled grip. Even Rusty, stupid creature that he is, can sense the tension in the air.

They walk.

They are silent, save for when Beatrice asks for directions. Perhaps their pace is a bit slower than it has to be. Even if this Caretaker is, against all logic and reason, a friend of Wirt’s, they can’t help but hesitate in approaching him.

Then the first notes of music reach their ears. They freeze, listening hard. Greg’s face breaks into a grin. “That’s a clarinet!”

The boy makes as if to run off, but Beatrice catches him first. “Let’s go quietly,” she suggests. “You know, make sure he’s alone and that he doesn’t panic and bolt the second he hears us.”

“Oh.” Greg’s enthusiasm dims—only for a moment, though. “Good plan.”

The music they hear is sad, almost mournful. Jason, sitting on Greg’s teapot, taps his webbed foot to the beat.

And then they are close enough to see him.

Beatrice goes rigid, staring in horror at the branches protruding from his head, over a foot long each and tipped with green leaves. Except they aren’t branches, not really.

They’re antlers.

She looks at his eyes, and sure enough, they’re white and glowing softly. He seems taller, narrower, with a black cloak and a shadow that’s darker than it should be. The Dark Lantern glows quietly at his side.

Wirt—the Caretaker, _he’s_ the Caretaker—finishes his song, lowers the clarinet from his mouth. Beatrice remains incapable of motion, but Greg takes a tentative step forward. His voice warbles as he asks, “Wirt?”

His head snaps up, antler-leaves rustling with the suddenness of the motion. The white eyes go wide with shock and disbelief. In a voice that’s deeper than Beatrice remembers, he chokes out an incredulous “ _Greg_?”

Greg takes another step, a tentative smile on his face. “Nice to see you again, brother o’mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to put this in modern times because I'm too lazy to figure out the eighties. Not that it matters--this story is set in the Unknown--but on the off-chance that I ever go back to our world, it might be good to have a more definite date.  
> Title comes from the song "Into the Unknown."  
> (Also, Wirt may or may not be traumatized by the whole turning-someone-into-edelwood thing.)


End file.
